


Lockets, Loins, and a Guide to Web 2.0

by meganbagels (Meganbagels)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: #Nethermagicks, Awkward Conversations, Christmas Presents, First Time, Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2017, M/M, Romance, Shadwell doesn't understand technology, Shadwell's expert romance and sex advice, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 15:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meganbagels/pseuds/meganbagels
Summary: When Crowley discovers that a gift from Aziraphale, circa the early 1890s contains a lock of hair, clarity and support come from an unlikely corner: Sergeant Shadwell.Shadwell gave a great hacking cough and declared, “Ye fools! Tis a symbol of his loins and their lustful aches for you!”Cue an uncomfortable discussion, an unintentional Twitter hashtag, a fumbling first time, an awkward conversation, and the uncanny wisdom of Oscar Wilde.





	1. Then.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady Lier (LadyZitle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyZitle/gifts).



> This story would never have been possible without prompts for the Good Omens Exchange from Lady Lier. Thank you so much for your wonderful prompts! This story would also never have existed without the careful nurturing and genius of  
> RunRabbitRun who was there for me when I needed to get into Shadwell's head and helped me find that iconic Shadwell accent. 
> 
> This is probably a little more book canon than tv canon, but barely so.

The club was dimly lit for Christmas eve, most of the members having gone home to wives, mistresses, rent boys, their children, and perhaps a very few to midnight services. Aziraphale had agreed to meet at Crowley’s club on Crowley’s argument that the brandy was nicer and also that his club actually kept the fires properly stoked instead of letting them languish into embers for the sake of cheapness.  
  
Crowley poured generous measures and sat down in the leather wingback closest to the fire. “We’re bordering on cliche now, with the Christmas exchange. Applause to your side for capitalizing on the covetousness of humans.”  
  
From the street came the sound of carolers demanding ‘figgy pudding’ with varying degrees of intensity.  Crowley added, “And combining it with some jaunty tunes was a good choice.”  
  
Aziraphale brushed the snow off his coat and sat down with his snifter. “It’s about the giving of gifts, not the receiving.”  
  
“I was at Harrod’s the other day and I can assure you that you’ve misread the situation.”  
  
“Well, we shall see,” Aziraphale said placidly as he nudged his chair closer to the fire. The pungent smell of damp wool was filling the small drawing room. “Cliches aside, I found something you might enjoy. Oscar suggested it as a gift for you. He’s a thoughtful young man. I hadn’t even noticed the shop!”  
  
“Do you often go shopping together?” Crowley muttered into his brandy.  
  
“No, no, it was just on a walk after one of the performances, opening night you know, and he pointed it out. Really, I don’t know why you’ve taken such a dislike to him.”  
  
“I like him fine! I went to all his plays! I even bought a copy of his damned novella.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded in satisfaction. “Fine, well, anyway, I thought it was lovely and he thought you might agree so I’ve saved it as your Christmas present.”  
  
Aziraphale handed him a small brown paper parcel with a ribbon on it. Crowley plucked at the ribbon to find a small silver locket with a filigreed carnation on it and a tiny inlaid green stone at the center.  
  
Crowley held it awkwardly and made a face that he hoped looked gracious in some way. “It’s, erm, _very_ lovely, but lockets are more often worn by women. At least so far as I’ve noticed! It’s much appreciated, of course. It does seem, well, very –ah, modern of you.”   
  
Aziraphale frowned in alarm. “Oh, are they? Some of Oscar’s friends wear jewelry of all sorts. I thought perhaps it was the style now. You needn’t wear it if you don’t wish to. I’m certain there are some cufflinks or something more suitable in the shop,” he reached to take back the locket, blushing slightly.  
  
Crowley pulled it out of reach saying, “No, it’s very nice! Lovely, even. Perhaps wear it under my coat for now though. Keep it safe and all that. Ahem, here’s your gift.”  
  
Crowley handed Aziraphale a hastily wrapped parcel that looked like it might have seen a bit of banging around on the carriage ride or through the post. Aziraphale methodically unfolded the paper and untied the string around it, gasping when he saw what it contained.   
  
“How did you find a copy of this?” Aziraphale cradled a slightly roughed up manuscript titled _Book of Mormon_.  
  
Crowley tipped his head proudly. “Call it an advance copy. I just thought you might enjoy the American take on things for a change of pace. I’ve read it and I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”  
  
“Thank you. I’d been hoping to find a copy,” Aziraphale beamed, “Happy Christmas, Crowley.”  
  
“Happy Christmas, Aziraphale,” Crowley clinked their glasses together, locket still held in his hand.


	2. Now.

Anathema made a third cup of tea for Shadwell as he poked away at her laptop suspiciously. She was busy trying to study for one of her midwifery certifications but had agreed to help introduce Shadwell to the internet so he could find a better gift for Madame Tracy than a new crystal ball or some tins of condensed milk to replace the ones he was always drinking from her cupboards. He also had some pressing questions he was unwilling to discuss with Anathema, Newt, or anyone else.   
  
“She’s exceeding fond of whips and scourges. Witchly guilt, methinks,” Shadwell announced to no one in particular.  
  
Anathema replied anyway, “Maybe something a little gentler? Like some ribbons or blindfolds?”   
  
“Nae, coddling is for weak’uns,” Shadwell continued his slow search of the internet.   
  
Anathema heard a loud and insistent motor stop outside her cottage and opened the door to Crowley, standing there in suit trousers with a fitted button down and a locket hanging around his neck beneath a scarf that looked like it was made of whatever was more costly and luxurious than cashmere. He was holding a trembling fern.   
  
“Thank you for the plant! I would have driven to get it myself, but I couldn’t leave him to himself on this,” She gestured to Shadwell.   
  
“I couldn’t keep it, it was setting a bad example for the others. I’m sure you’ll spoil it beyond usefulness.”  
  
“A visit from the flash bastard? Come to try your wiles here?” Shadwell said without looking up.   
  
“My wiles were used to get out of several traffic tickets already today, you’re safe.”   
  
“Nice necklace by the way, very modern. What’s the picture in it?” Anathema started the kettle again and pulled out the white peony tea that Crowley seemed to be so fond of.  
  
“Nothing, just some hair,” Crowley shrugged.   
  
Anathema recoiled nearly spilling the tea leaves she was measuring out, “What? That’s disgusting! Was it a gift from a stalker?”   
  
“It was from Aziraphale and we’ve known each other long enough I’d like to say we’re friends rather than stalkers these days.”   
  
“He gave you a locket with hair in it?” Anathema looked distrustfully at the necklace.   
  
“Don’t think he put it there on purpose. Lockets are tricky bastards. Very easy to curse, in my experience, even accidentally. This one doesn’t feel cursed but doesn’t mean it’s not a vicious little knickknack in its own right. It probably snapped shut and wouldn’t open again.”   
  
Anathema flicked off the kettle just before it started boiling, “I suppose that’s possible. My cat did once get a locket caught on its claw somehow. Seems very odd though, even for you two.”    
  
Shadwell gave a great hacking cough and declared, “Ye fools! Tis a symbol of his loins and their lustful aches for you!”  
  
Crowley visibly blinked behind his sunglasses, mouth agape. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
Shadwell rolled his eyes and enunciated very clearly as though Crowley was simple. “Victorian witchery to claim a man’s heart with a lock of their hair. Madame Tracy’s hair is very dangerous. She wears it down sometimes and it casts magic all on its own!”   
  
“I’m sure this wasn’t meant with any ill-intention though,” Anathema broke in, trying to soothe Crowley’s dumbfounded look.   
  
“Erotic magicks!” Shadwell snorted as he turned back to the computer, pecking slowly but with great vigor at the keys.  
  
Anathema pulled out her phone speaking into it. “Locket with hair inside.”   
  
The phone booped, paused, clinked, and said, “DO YOU WISH TO FIND CREMATION LOCKETS?”   
  
Shadwell lunged out of his seat and tried to bat the phone out of Anathema’s hands. “Ensnarements!”   
  
Anathema held the phone up high and put out a placating hand. “It’s just trying to find out what it means. It’s not going to hurt you!”   
  
The phone chose that moment to recalibrate and make more melodic chimes and then said, “DO YOU WISH TO FIND HAIR NETS?”   
  
“I tells you both, the hair is a token of the nether parts! As well, your phone is full of imps that must be cast out!”   
  
Crowley, shaking out of his catatonia, slipped past Shadwell and took a seat at the laptop to begin searching. He kept up a jangly stream of chatter. “The asking your phone trick was something my people invented. It’s among the most inefficient ways to use the internet we’ve, well _I’ve_ , ever found. Glad to see it’s firmly caught on.”   
  
Anathema scowled and batted Shadwell away who was glaring menacingly at her phone and had pulled out a shabby looking pen knife and, holding it defensively.   
  
“There,” Crowley announced, “according to this website it’s just a normal…romantic token…?” He trailed off and began clicking around furiously.   
  
“Ye should heed. I know all about your crafts and a lock of hair is an enticement to sinful lusts!” Shadwell’s voice dipped low in warning.   
  
Crowley scowled. “Considering everything you’ve somehow managed to tweet, ‘sinful lusts’ is something of a specialty.” Crowley pointed to the other open tab.   
  
Anathema shoved her phone up on top of a high cabinet, out of reach of Shadwell and ran to the laptop. “What do you mean tweet?”  
  
“He’s entered all of his searches into twitter, it seems. Some of them very creative indeed,” Crowley turned the laptop so Anathema could scroll through them.    


> Christmas scourge wihps fer woman   
>    
>  lustful gifts for witch Babylon mayhap  
>    
>  Wand violets witchery  
>    
>  Christmas for whan your Lady friend is a Witch  
>    
>  Bedroom magicks but not too magickal prsents  
>    
>  un-enchanted cHains, berdoom only  
>    
>  Hae does the clirotis work?   
>    
>  gifts for painted jEZebekl, long time rleationship  
>    
>  anti chaffing cream for nether regioNs may be senshual or not

  
  
Anathema started clicking madly at the Twitter account setting. “You have to delete them now!”   
  
“They’ve already been retweeted and are going viral. Look, you’ve even got a hashtag! #nethermagicks,” Crowley pointed at the sidebar.   
  
Anathema rounded on Shadwell and with clipped precision ground out. “What the fuck were you doing?!”    
  
Shadwell looked unbothered. “Looking for gifts befitting my lady friend. She wished for a wand the color of violet or made of violets.”   
  
Anathema’s eyes bugged. “I don’t think that’s what you’re thinking it is.”   
  
Crowley waved a hand. “Everyone’s into S&M these days, it’s fine.”   
  
“Not on my twitter account it’s not!”  
  
“Fair enough, you can delete them if you like, but they’ve already been backed up somewhere, I can promise that. Oh, this is a good one: Cann a mans member be enchantd? fRriend is cureoouis.”   
  
Shadwell awaited any forthcoming answers on the subject but when none were provided, he turned on Crowley, “And what about your Southern Pansy and his gift?”   
  
“He’s not my anything!” Crowley insisted, “I’m sure it was just an accident or a mistake!”   
  
“Nae one casts a net of seductiousness except apurpose. Don’t be a fool.”   
  
“It was over a cen-It was a long time ago! I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it now, anyway.”   
  
“Aye, it’s as maybe he has, but do ye want him to?”   
  
“I – probably!” Crowley hedged.   
  
Shadwell gave Crowley a look of utter contempt for his cowardice. “For a flash bastard you’ve no stomach for your sins.”   
  
Crowley stood up from the chair in exasperation, getting up the power for some anxious pacing, “ _It’s not a sin! People always think sex was one of ours!”_ He then noticed he’d upset Shadwell’s cup of tea all over the floor and on his own trousers.   
  
“Then stop your ninnying about and go ensnare him with your bedevilments you twit. Come outside, ye need to be told what’s what, away from the ears of wimmin.”  
  
Anathma glared. “When you’re done, you’re fixing this, Shadwell!”   
  
“Can ye not just turn it off and then make it on again? Or tell the boggarts in t’wires you’ll punish them if they willnae behave.” Shadwell offered as though it was obvious.   
  
Anathema’s scream of frustration could be heard as the door closed behind them.   
  
Shadwell turned to Crowley and with what, if it were anyone else, might be called an air of fatherly wisdom, took Crowley by the elbow and pressed him to sit on the hood of his own car.   
  
“Ye think yerself a smart one, maybe too smart for aught I’ve to say but yer not too smart for that Southern Pansy. Ye got to face yer feelin’s like a _man_. Pull him to you, snog him with all you’ve got, then look at his face and say ‘yer the one I want to thwart wiles with, my luv.’ Then you-”   
  
Crowley interrupted the monologue. “thwarting doesn’t apply here.” Neither did the man part, frankly, but there was only so much he was prepared to discuss with Shadwell.   
  
“Don’t interrupt, you young pup, I know what I’m speakin’ on. You’ve got to fix the roof if it leaks and remember to put your socks in the hamper and get milk when you’re at the store. And don’t be afeared to do the hoovering either because you’re damned lucky to be had by him. And it don’t hurt any to do yourself up a bit, herbal soaks and such, ye want to show him he’s special to ye. And if yer’ asked to trim your nether pelt, you don’t go aching about it, you get down thar wit clippers and you do as best ye can!” Shadwell clenched a fist proudly to his chest. “Now, get in yer automobile, go to him, and do me proud you flash bastard!”   
  
Much to his own surprise, Crowley followed Shadwell’s commands and found himself on the road back to London. That didn’t solve much though. Should he say something. Should he _do_ something?   
  
Should he try to forget about this and pretend he’d never even noticed? He was a pretty good liar, but Aziraphale was a much better one and would sniff it out if he tried. That would be more awkward. Maybe less awkward though? Or probably not.   
  
Crowley missed the sureness of being in the Up There crowd maybe .0001% of the time and even that was probably overestimating it but the bugger about free will meant that whatever you did was your own blasted problem and you couldn’t point the finger. He’d tried “The Devil made me do it” on Aziraphale only once in 814 AD and after a particularly thorough discorporation at the hands of a fed up angel and had never had the bravery to try that line again. He’d have to stand on his own and just say it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

 

  
  
 *~*

 

  
  
Aziraphale poked his head out of the kitchen when the door slammed open and shut.   
  
“How are they? I was just thinking of Anathema the other day and was going to ask you what her address is. I’ve got Christmas cards this year and I don’t want them to be late.”   
  
Crowley followed Aziraphale to the kitchen. “You hate Christmas cards.”   
  
Aziraphale looked very much like he was pretending Crowley hadn’t said that, brushing lint off of his navy corduroys. Crowley thought they looked quite touchably soft, especially over the curve of Aziraphale’s bum. He turned to Crowley with a mug in hand, “Do you want tea or shall we open up the Grenache now? I’m saving the Gamay for after dinner, and I very much hope you made the reservations because I’m not miracling a table this time.”   
  
Crowley looked up from Aziraphale’s arse. “Woulditbeokayifikissedyou?” He blurted.   
  
Aziraphale looked wide-eyed at Crowley and carefully put the mug down. “Yes, that would be fine.”   
  
Crowley didn’t wait for further specifics, he grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulders, took a deep breath, and pressed their lips together. Aziraphale stiffened in his arms and then softened into the kiss, sighing deeply against Crowley. Crowley could feel the tip of a tongue gently brushing his lips and a slight sucking of his lower lip. Instantly, his whole body lit up like the entirety of Blackpool at Christmas in a single second. He was rusty on all the specifics but enthusiasm could fix a lot of things. He pushed Aziraphale against the counter and snaked his arms around his back and curled his fingers into that thick mussy hair. Aziraphale made a strange pleasured gurgle when Crowley tugged slightly at his hair, then pulled away blinking through slightly foggy glasses.  
  
“Perhaps we should go upstairs?” Aziraphale managed between breaths.   
  
Crowley nodded, afraid to speak in case he’d say something stupid and ruin it all or just make a squeaking noise. He dragged Aziraphale up the stairs and into the dustiest least well-kept bedroom he’d ever seen. Pulling Aziraphale into another hungry kiss, he flopped them both down onto the bed, and could feel the dust cloud emanating from their impact. He opened his eyes to see the dust resettling on top of their hair and on their clothes in a gentle snow of poor housekeeping. He banished the dust with a thought and determinedly worked to pull off his own clothes while still tight against Aziraphale.   
  
The warmth was intoxicating, he hadn’t been this warm since the garden, maybe before that even. Crowley felt the heat of bare skin against his chest and saw that Aziraphale had managed to get his sweater mostly off. Crowley straddled him and helped pull it off. Aziraphale, glasses slightly askew, reached between them to get their trousers undone.   
  
  
Crowley noticed they’d both made an effort for the occasion which saved some awkward conversations although Crowley felt obliged to ask between strangled breaths, “Are you okay? With this? The….erot-sex, um things..?” The tension moved even lower into his belly he swore there was some sort of burning cold breeze inside his chest and his nipples felt like ice chips for some reason which was incredibly disconcerting.   
  
Aziraphale set his glasses to rights and gave him an exasperatedly fond look “Yes, I am, as you can see. And as I can demonstrate, I’m fine with this ‘sex thing’,” he touched a soft, sweat-warm hands to Crowley and Crowley’s eyes crossed and he made a hiss like a punctured bike tire.   
  
Aziraphale pulled Crowley down against him and they moved together, hands sometimes stroking between them or clinging to one another’s shoulders, nails digging into hips, and lips bitten between teeth. They didn’t need to breathe but they’d forgotten that, panting enough to feel their bellies press tight with each inhale. Crowley didn’t dare blink and Aziraphale never closed his eyes or looked away, his mouth just pursed then opened, and his lips curled back into a gasp. Crowley followed, face close to Aziraphale’s, watching and feeling the hurtling pleasure building inside of him until it flung him off into the stars somewhere, but somewhere still on the bed with Aziraphale beneath him. His body shook and a guttural, toe-curling sigh swept through him as he came. Aziraphale looked pleasantly surprised by the turn of events and shuddered luxuriously against Crowley.   
  
Crowley rolled off of Aziraphale and took in the sight of both of them, sweaty, flushed, sticky, and glassy eyed. “How long have you been waiting for me to do that?” Crowley asked.   
  
Aziraphale came out of his haze. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“This,” Crowley gestured between them, “the sharing my feelings and snogging and all that?”  
  
“Oh,” Aziraphale blushed slightly, “I’d just thought perhaps this might happen at some point but really, you took me entirely by surprise today.”   
  
“You didn’t plan this or hint at this or use ensnarements?”   
  
Aziraphale puffed up in semi-nude indignation. “No, I did not, thank you.”   
  
Crowley fumbled for the locket that was still around his neck, opening it to show Aziraphale. “What’s this then? Why the hair?”   
  
Aziraphale peered at the snippet of hair curled inside. “I didn’t put that there. Why would I give you a lock of my hair?”   
  
Crowley felt ready to pull his own hair out. “As a sign of your desire for me! Obviously!”   
  
Aziraphale snorted and then with no grace at all began laughing so hard it bordered on guffawing, which Crowley thought was incredibly rude. When Aziraphale was able to speak again he said, “No, of course not! I might as well give you nail clippings or some eyelashes!”   
  
Crowley scowled, “Well if you didn’t put that hair in here, why is your hair in my locket?”   
  
Aziraphale looked closely at the inside of the locket and flicked tiny seam that opened another compartment. A miniscule piece of aged paper fluttered to the bed.   
  
Aziraphale picked it up. “The very essence of romance is uncertainty. Embrace it, you darling fools. -W.”  
  
Crowley furrowed his brow in disbelief. “This was all because of bloody Oscar Wilde?!”   
  
“He always did like you quite a bit.” Aziraphale touched the paper lovingly.  
  
Crowley nervously licked his lips. “Well so where does that leave us now?”  
  
“Where we were, I suppose. Friends that thwart one another, drink, share meals, etc,” Aziraphale stretched in post-coital satisfaction.   
  
“Are you saying that we shouldn’t do this whole sex thing again?” Crowley asked quietly, “Because aside from the fact that I do fancy you, I’d really like to do erm, _more_ things with you.”   
  
“No, I didn’t say that at all,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand in his and laying back on the bed, “After dinner would be lovely.”   
  
Crowley’s stomach fluttered in excitement. “Oh, and I promise that if you ever think any of the hair ah, down there? If you ever think it needs trimming, I’ll trim it.”   
  
Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Of course. I would do the same for you.”


End file.
